


New Orleans

by jvo_taiski



Series: make you walk alone [2]
Category: The Outsiders (1983), The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Angst, Friends With Benefits, M/M, POV Second Person, Sexual Content, Soft Drugs, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 15:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30040929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: Stealin’ fireworks is a helluva lot harder than stealing cigarettes, and that’s for sure. And kissing Dallas is a helluva lot easier than it should be.
Relationships: Tim Shepard/Dallas Winston
Series: make you walk alone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2097945
Kudos: 7





	New Orleans

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I was done with this two-part series but it’s come to my attention that there’s a disappointing lack of explicit Dal/Tim fics on this hellsite so here we are. Sorry. 
> 
> Warnings: use of homophobic slurs. Soft drugs. Also, I like to tell myself it’s a dynamic study but over half of this mess is Dal getting fucked in excruciating detail, so yeah, there’s that
> 
> [ages 17&18 in this, respectively]

Stealin’ fireworks is a helluva lot harder than stealing cigarettes, and that’s for sure. But it’s almost easy when Dal’s at the front of the store doing his best to piss off the cashier, so easy that the guy don’t even blink when you waltz out with a couple rockets and a pack of roman candles under your jacket.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” Dal says, jamming a cigarette between his teeth as the two of you take a back road out towards a park. “Thought it’d be harder to lift fuckin’ explosives from a store, god _damn._ ”

You just shrug, and steal his cigarette to take a drag, and he elbows you in the ribs but it ain’t hard. “I’m jus’ that good of a thief, what can I say?”

He says nothing more as a police car cruises past but gives the two of you no mind—you’re not doing anything illegal, not yet, and it’s too dark for the cops to recognise you. At this point, Dal’s probably on first-name basis with every damn one of them and the only reason you ain’t is ‘cos talking to them ain’t something you make a habit of.

“What d’you get?” he asks, tugging at your jacket—you let it fall open and he grins, with this juvenile sort of joy in his eyes that sets your pulse racing. It’s why you hang with him, you reckon—however much he pisses you off, he’s got an energy about him unmatched by anyone else you’ve ever seen.

“What do they do? These ones?”

“You’ve never set off fireworks? At your big age? For real?”

He shrugs. “Last time I tried stealin’ them I got caught. Why, you do this shit a lot?”

“Sure. Started young. Ma used to buy me an’ the kids sparklers, when we were real young, and the first thing I did was set all one hundred of them on fire at once. Nearly burned the lawn down.”

It ain’t a lie, your ma just about whipped you into next Tuesday. But you were six and it was fucking worth it because the sight of a hundred sparklers sizzling, gold light spitting ten feet into the air, like some sort of monster, was the best thing you’d ever created with your own two hands. Even if it only lasted just over a minute.

He snickers. “Started arson young, huh?”

“For sure. You know fourth of July fireworks are shitty, ‘specially the ones in this dump, but they get a whole lot better when you’re the one setting them off.”

“They had pretty good ones back in New York.”

“Yeah, but have you ever seen the ones in New Orleans? Lord. Make you feel real small.”

He considers. Dal’s been to more states than you up north, Michigan, New Jersey and New York, but he’s never been to Louisiana and you know it. You wonder about New York when he brags to you about it, but sometimes he rambles and you find yourself listening. You know about his queer neighbours who’d let him in if he needed some place to stay, the deli around the block which he swears up and down made the best Rueben sandwiches he’s ever had, about random moments like the one time he got caught pickpocketing and hid in a laundromat to get away.

“What’s it like, New Orleans?”

Big. Sprawling. Ugly, too—your uncle lived in the ghetto area. “You ever seen a Mardi Gras Parade on TV?”

“Naw, what?”

“C’mon, Fat Tuesday? You know, before lent. It’s a big deal down in New Orleans; they’ve got parades every day for a week. And I’m tellin’ ya, the fireworks—tuffer than you’ll ever see.”

He tosses his cigarette into the fountain as you walk by and you wonder if he’s thinking about it. “Huh.”

The fountain glows white in the moonlight and the park is suddenly too empty, too silent, and you’re wound too tight—you stop right where you are and announce, “We’re doin’ it here. You know how to set one of these things off?”

“How hard can it be?”

You ignore him, and empty the fireworks from your jacket and onto the ground. “We’re doing the rockets first, ‘cos if the cops show up we won’t have time to do them after. The noise is gonna make ‘em come running though, so—”

“D’you wanna shut the fuck up and stop overthinking it? Je- _sus,_ Timothy, you’re about to make a fucking firework boring.”

And he’s picked one of the rockets before you can kick him or something and most of your thoughts slip your mind when he shoves it in the ground a couple meters away and lights it up. Lit fuse, racing. The tenseness while you wait, the moment of savage joy when a stream of gold shoots from it, and when it explodes, the catharsis—blood red splashed across the sky, a warning, fading into gold and you feel surrounded.

“Shit,” he says, wide-eyed. “That’s one hell of a feeling, huh?”

“Yeah,” you say, and the second rocket goes off, easy as anything, kicks in the primal joy that you’ve set off this bright fucking thing and everyone around can see it, hear it. Smoke everywhere and it smells vile but you don’t even care—a firecracker tossed in a trashcan and the deafening _bang_ that leaves a tinny ringing noise in your ears. Dallas aims a roman candle at you first, just like you knew he would, and you dodge it easy, a streak of red light sailing over your shoulder with a _phut_ noise. You feel like it should be louder.

Aim one back and you’re aiming for the face and so is he—you won’t die, but being burned pretty bad ain’t fun. He drops the one he’s holding to the ground when a burst of light skims his upper arm, eyes wide in surprise.

It’s a strange feeling, believing you’ll live forever when you’re surrounded by light, dizzy on the knowledge that you could have been hit but you weren’t. Adrenaline, pumping—if this is the way you die then you’ll embrace it, and that’s an even stranger feeling because you would’ve scoffed at the thought of Dallas shooting you in the face with a firework before, and you’ll scoff at it again afterwards. You won’t let yourself think about what _could have been,_ because it didn’t happen, and won’t happen, and you’re young and immortal until one day you’re not, and that’s just how it is.

Roman candle on the ground and you dimly hope that it don’t set the grass on fire or something, and he’s rubbing at the spot on his jacket that the firework grazed—it won’t scar there, it’s probably not even burnt. You jump over the fading streaks of gold still dancing over the ground when you hear sirens and he laughs when the two of you leg it around the fountain and go. The cop car catches up with you around the other side of the park but your hood’s up so they won’t be able to see who you are, and you light the last firework and toss it behind you, hearing the _bang_ and the screech of tyres when you vault someone’s fence and follow Dal the hell out of there. Heart thudding and you feel fucking alive.

He goes in hard when the two of you end up back at Buck’s, pressing you against the door the second it’s closed. You aren’t anticipating it, but you go with it—and it’s different, when you’re not drunk. Rawer. More personal. He slips his cold fingers beneath the hem of your shirt and you contemplate throwing him off just for that, but he yanks at the fabric before you can make up your mind and your shirt ends up tossed in the corner instead, with his following in seconds.

You tug him to the bed by his belt loops and he goes easy, settling on your lap at by the headboard—and it’s alright, the kissing. The way he bites at your lip, and you force your tongue into his mouth—but yet. You both feel it, the shift. Your mind is wandering, maybe because it’s the first time you’re not fucking drunk while doing this with him, and there’s none of your usual single-minded focus. Maybe because it didn’t start with a fight, not really. Either way, you find yourself softening the kiss, holding his cheek while your mind drifts, letting your tongue slide against his. And kissing him like this, hell. You could keep going for hours. And it ain’t half bad—he’s a good kisser. Knows when to give, when to take, but your pulse hasn’t calmed yet and you’re jittery.

You break away. “I’m too sober for this shit.”

He shrugs, and grins a little, teeth bared in that weird way of his, and rests his elbows on your shoulders. It can’t be comfortable, the way he’s sitting—he’s hunched over, knees locking your waist in and back bowed beautifully to stare you down.

“What, not wasted enough to pretend I’m a chick? You better say something now if you’re fixin’ on flaking out ‘cos I’m horny as hell.”

You roll your eyes. “Relax your punk ass. You’re gonna have to do for tonight.”

He scoffs, and goes in to kiss your neck, slow, and you tilt your neck into it first but then shove him off.

“I told ya, I’m too sober for this shit. You got anything in here?”

“What’s the matter, Timothy? Forgotten how to fuck sober? Scared you’ll come too soon without booze?”

“Shut the hell up or ain’t nobody getting off,” you say, but he just shrugs again and gets up, and a wave of cold washes down your spine—but he only opens a drawer and rummages around, tossing a couple pairs of underwear to the ground.

He swears, and digs in further, but then announces, “You got lucky, Timothy.”

“Stop callin’ me Timothy, before I break that ugly-ass face of yours.”

“You been tryna threaten me a lot today, _Timothy,_ ” he drawls, in blatant provocation. Maybe he thinks that will get him laid faster. Fucking whore. But when he turns around he’s holding half a joint between his fingers and it’s enough incentive for you not to rise to his bait, for once.

“You really keep this shit in your goddamn underwear drawer?” you scoff, but he ignores you, settling back over your lap and lighting up with his necklace. Usually you ain’t no stoner, but it sure as shit smells good when he takes the first hit then leans in to press lips to yours, shotguns you heavy smoke that goes straight to your head.

“Shit,” you mutter and he grins against your mouth, lips moving slow against yours. “That ain’t my stuff. Where d’you get it?”

“One of the guys around Brumley. Better than that fuckin’ skunk of yours, I reckon.”

You shrug. “S’just different. Give it here.”

He holds the joint too close to your hair but you don’t give a hang, not when you tug him closer by the back of the neck and he comes easy. It’s better, a little high, when he’s a little relaxed and seems to melt into you. You still want to pause the moment indefinitely but you don’t care so much anymore, not when there’s a slight haze forming in your mind and Buck’s let someone else choose the music, rhythm pulsing up through the floorboards. Distant.

Dal looks young when he ain’t sneering. You lean back and watch him stub the remains of the joint out, admire the way his hips fit in your hands. Almost like one of your girls. It’s a distant wonder, bones slender as you slide fingers up his torso, splay them against his ribcage, feel the way it expands, contracts, flexing in and out. Bitter, usually, but wide-eyed now. A couple inches taller but so fragile under your hands.

You wonder if he looks at you the same way, whether he’s looking down right now and seeing someone open. Laid-bare. The thought doesn’t bother you as much as it should.

You’re closer to him than you’ve been in a long time, strung together with some sort of strange intimacy, on a kind of truce, when the two of you can just touch. His breath comes quiet and a little ragged in your ear, one hand twined in your hair, and your nose grazes his shoulder, just barely. He stinks, like sweat, gunpowder. Maybe it should grate on your nerves, but it doesn’t, not really, not when you run a hand back down his stomach, lower. Trace the hardness at the front of his jeans and feel the little hitch in his breathing.

When you catch his gaze, you feel more open than you have in a long, long time. It’s strange. You’ve seen each other naked before, after all, even before you started messing around. But it’s alright, when he stares at you without hiding anything, heavy-lidded, mouth a little open and a hickey starting to form under his jaw, bright. Gone, so, so gone. Not many people have ever looked at you like that, and if they have, you’ve never taken the time to acknowledge it.

Time seems distant, but you end up hauling him in impossibly closer, gripping his ass tight and grinding him against you, feeling every place he presses fingers into your skin, hot. Squirming. Lips firm and sloppy against yours, and the way he gasps against your cheek, leans heavily onto your shoulders.

You raise an eyebrow and smirk, pressing him closer still, and fuck if that doesn’t feel good—you take in the way his mouth falls further open. “You like me holdin’ you by the ass, huh? Little bitch.”

He seems to snarl a little, a harsh contrast to the lax expression on his face earlier—a harsh contrast in the way he bites out, “Wanna fuck me?”

Your brain just about short-circuits.

“What?” An incredulous laugh spills from your lips.

“I ain’t gonna repeat it; you heard what you heard.”

And you can almost see him changing his mind. You’ve only ever considered it in your perverse fantasies, in some half thought-out dirty talk when you’re yanking his hair, but Lord, you _want,_ and you want it bad—but for some reason, you want him to _want_ just as much as you. He’s tense so you kiss him, hungry, so he doesn’t have to say anything more. You think you’re dreaming when you fumble with the fly of his pants, when you shuck your own off and end up above him, suddenly desperate—and Lord, you _want._

Your head’s spinning, and it ain’t the weed—it’s the leverage he’s suddenly given you. Not control. Vulnerability. You don’t know how the hell it’s come to this, his next dizzying move designed to throw you off kilter, but you’re certain he’s got something that he wants from it, an ulterior motive. Maybe he’s expecting you to put out for him later. And it makes your heart pound, the thought, and it might be fear.

Or, you muse as you run a rough thumb across his collarbone, it’s simpler. Maybe he just doesn’t give a fucking hang. He ended up kissing you that way, after all—maybe he’s just here for the kicks, and he’s cocky as ever, confident that you won’t take more than what’s owed. Less trust in you, more in his own judgement. Lord knows how it’s kept him alive for this long, but it must have its merits if it has.

So you kiss him again, slow and bruising, before crawling down his torso and hesitating with your head poised above his hips. This is the guy who always takes the first step, who toes the line—reckless, and you humour him. Let it happen. You wonder how he knew you wouldn’t have killed him the first time he shoved his hand down your pants, how he knew he’d unlock a part of you that you’d always forced yourself to ignore, how he knew you were a fucking faggot.

He curls his hands in your hair when your lips touch his cock, not pushing or pulling. It ain’t the first time you’ve been in this position, not by a long shot. There’s something about being on your knees that wields a perverse power, the ability to deny him, give him too much, make him hurt. But you refrain, and he doesn’t try bending you to his will.

“Dal,” you say, heart thumping, running a finger down his balls, his taint, lower. He shivers minutely and his grip in your hair tightens. “You ever done this before?”

You know damn well he hasn’t, and he gulps, then shrugs, trying to play it off as nonchalant—but he’s flighty, and you both know it. Maybe he regrets saying anything. Probably not. You don’t think he’s ever regretted a thing in his life—the day he does will be the day he dies, most likely. Though it’s probable that it won’t bother him none either.

But you kiss him again, gentler than you should, and cup his chin. Take in the way he grits his teeth, defiant, but his eyes are wide, still so wide. He confuses you, sometimes.

“You got lube?”

He props himself up on an elbow, corn-silk hair ticking the bottom of your nose, and yanks open a drawer under the bedside table, smacking his elbow against a corner and cursing. You don’t bother hide your smirk, and full-on snort when he presents you with a tub of Vaseline.

“You been planning this, huh?” you accuse, but there’s no real bite in it and he knows it. “Shoulda known you wanted to get fucked. Cocky little brat.”

He knees you in the balls because you’re an idiot and you’ve let your guard slip and you’re still straddling one of his thighs. But it’s gentle enough not to hurt too bad, and he’s grinning when you shove his head back down on the pillows and shuffle back down.

You hesitate when you’re level with his hips again, and he takes a slow breath. Your hands shake when you open the tub but you don’t know why. It’s not _you_ asking for a cock up the ass, after all. “You ever had anythin’ up here at all?” you ask.

He nods, unable to hide the pink flush spreading up his chest. It’s. Endearing, almost. You bite your lip imagining him riding his own fingers but refrain from mocking, from asking exactly what he was imagining when he did it. But maybe you’ve hesitated a second too long because he rushes out, “I ain’t dirty, if that’s what’s botherin’ ya. I cleaned up earlier, but I’ll do it if you—”

It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice so shaky. Still forced into nonchalance. And it’s just another thing about him that throws you, that ain’t supposed to happen, but you’re kind of high, and drunk off the intimacy, the heady strangeness, the strange trust. Too out of it to stop. So you lick up his cock again and watch him squirm, hands fisted in the sheets, trace his rim with a forefinger and watch him grit his teeth.

“Relax,” you hear yourself saying, and he does, slowly. He takes one finger easy but freezes up on two, and the whole time your heart’s thudding, praying you don’t fuck this up. Maybe it _would_ have been easier if he did it himself. This ain’t what you’re used to, putting fingers in an ass.

“I ain’t—” you’re uncertain, frustrated, unsure how to make him enjoy this. He’s barely hard, but hell, something about this must feel good if he’s asking for it, right? There’s gotta be an appeal in having something up there—

“Crook your fingers up, like when you’re with a girl,” he suggests, slightly breathless, and you frown a little but do it.

“Am I lookin’ for something?”

He squirms on your fingers a little, a crease between his eyebrows and a small frown on his lips. “Yes. No. Fuck knows. Felt good when I did it to myself.”

“Jack yourself off,” you say, then, “Tell me if it gets any good,” because he’s still so damn _tight,_ and there’s no fuckin’ way you’re getting into those guts tonight if he doesn’t fuckin’ relax. Probably would’ve been easier if there was more pot. Maybe then, it’d also be easier to get you head around the fact that Dal’s _insides_ are currently clenching around your fingers.

Someone stumbles outside the door and shouts, and the both of you jump, muscles in his ass clamping down. “Shit,” he hisses, and you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood.

You let out a whoosh of breath. “You alright, baby?”

“Yeah, fuck.” Tentative when he locks eyes with you again, open in more ways than one. Shit. “I dunno, it’s kinda—” he tries shifting again, rolling his hips, face set. He huffs in frustration. “It was a bump, sort of. Like—”

“A bump?” Your eyebrows fly upwards. “Is that normal? Fuckin’ mutated-ass—somethin’ wrong with it—”

“There’s a real easy way to check if you got something just like it,” he winks, then when he sees your incredulous expression, says, “Who gives a hang? Felt good.” A bit of a grin returns to his face as he rolls his hips down again and _Jesus,_ the thought of him doing that on your cock does fucked up things to your mind.

You try shifting your fingers in, then out a bit. Scissoring. ‘Cos even if there ain’t no fuckin’ magic spot in his ass you’re wanting real fuckin’ bad now, wanting him to go through with this so much you think you might burst. You pull your fingers out almost to the rim before easing back in, pressing them along the front wall, and he gasps “ _Oh_ ,” a little breathless, and squirms. “C’mon, Timothy—again, there.”

You freeze, and touch the same area again, and he squirms a little again and okay, yeah, there is something there, slightly firmer. You stroke carefully, in a beckoning motion like you learned to do with girls, and watch him take a shaky breath and toss a forearm over his eyes.

“That actually feels good?” you ask, dubious.

“Kind of makes it feel like I gotta piss,” he admits and you snort.

Then, “I swear, if you piss on me you’ll fucking regret it ‘til the day you die. I’ll goddamn castrate you.”

“Je- _sus,_ cool it, I ain’t gonna piss. An’ come on, I’m falling asleep here. If this is what you’re like with the girls then it ain’t no wonder you’re desperate for my ass.”

“You wanna shut the fuck up?” you offer, with a jab that sends him cursing, but you ease up and try circling that spot, pressing down.

He’s flushed all the way up to his neck when he says, “Stick another one in,” and you can’t resist shoving his forearm out of the way, exposing his face. His mouth is hanging open, eyes screwed shut, and you feel lust shoot south and pool low in your stomach. You bite the inside of your cheek again, and gently slide another finger alongside the others, testing the resistance, the slow slide when Dal rolls his hips down on all three and lets out a quiet groan.

It hits you like a truck that he’s letting you in _that_ , and your heart rate picks up again, _thud, thud, thud_ in your throat—the thought of what that would _feel_ like, god.

You watch the way his hips move, the jerky roll, and pin them down with a forearm. When his eyes fly open you take the head of his cock back into his mouth and watch those blue eyes roll back into his head. _Jesus._ You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the feeling, of a cock in your mouth—makes you gag when you take it too far and it hits the back of your throat. But he doesn’t force it. He never does. Your tongue is clumsy on the underside and your jaw already aches and there are tears starting to spring and prickle in your eyes but it’s worth it when Dal lets out this soft, desperate noise and you’re. Amazed.

Makes you wonder, sometimes. Why this is fucked-up when it can leave Dal like it does, leave him docile. Actually, maybe that’s why it’s fucked-up. Or maybe it attracts him because it is.

He reaches for your hair and yanks you back up before the thought can take up too much space in your head, and he flips the two of you around so fast that the air leaves your lungs in a _whoosh_. And then his lips are back on yours before you can recover, and he’s grinding back against your cock and you’re gonna fucking pass out.

He rasps _Tim_ when you slip your fingers back into him and fuck, that’s dangerous, too dangerous.

“Lube,” you manage to get out. He swears and reaches for where you’ve discarded it on the mattress, and laughs when your fingers slide over lid because they’re slick and shaking. He yanks it back out of your hands and sits on your stomach to open it, still smirking like the bastard he is, so you cuss and pinch the inside of his thigh in retaliation.

“How much of this shit do we fuckin’ need?” you wonder aloud, as you fumble to coat your cock in Vaseline. “It’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“I ain’t no pussy,” he shoots back with one of his bared-teeth grins, and gets a hand behind himself to grip your cock, plants his other hand by your head, caging you in, takes shaky little breaths that scatter over your cheekbones and nose and it’s overwhelming but you’d live in the moment forever if you could. He swears the first time he tries, your cock catching a little but skidding between his cheeks, and you’re hot, burning up. He’s got this determined little crease between his eyebrows and you rest your hands on his thighs, stroking a little, soothing circles with your thumbs. To ground yourself as much as him.

The next time he tries he gets it and you hiss through gritted teeth when he starts to sink down, real slow. “Fuck,” he grunts, the tips of his hair brushing your forehead. Your nails dig into the soft skin on his upper thighs.

“How does it feel?” you ask, part curious, and he groans a little as he presses down that tiny bit further. At this point, you wouldn’t be surprised if your nails started drawing blood.

“Fuckin’ weird,” he grunts. He takes his hand away from your cock, tentative, and braces it on the other side of your head and just breathes, slow, deep, and _fuck_ you can feel everything, every little twitch, and you wonder if he can feel it too. You’re hot all over and panting just as harsh as he is, panicking that you’re gonna lose control and not last. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and like losing your damned virginity all over again and it ain’t just because he’s a guy, or because you’re up someone’s ass, it’s because it’s _Dallas_ and you don’t really know what the hell to do about it so you force yourself to stop thinking, and it ain’t hard, not when he grits his teeth and pushes himself down another inch.

Neither of you speak for a while, as he takes you in steady, thighs straining but solid. You try pulling in as much air as you can, mind still a little hazy as you try calming down. Stroke his thighs again, fingers light over the fine blonde hair that thickens midway down his quads, and concentrate on the music playing faintly downstairs. It’s not Hank Williams, thank god, or you probably would’ve already gone soft—like Dal, you notice, somewhat dimly. You hadn’t seen it ‘cos he was hunched over but you reach down now, to touch, only fumbling a little, and he inhales sharply and stills, before screwing his eyes shut and pressing down the whole way. You grit your teeth to stop a groan.

He settles braced above you, chest heaving a little, before easing himself into a sitting position with a wince. You come to your senses a little and raise your knees, and he leans back on them, staring at you from under half-lidded eyes. He’s hot and damned tight and _you’re in Dal’s ass, Christ—_ and you’re forced to shut your eyes and lean back, swallowing.

“You alright, Timothy?” he drawls, a little breathless. His voice breaks through the little bubble you’re in. “D’you need a second to, uh, _compose yourself?”_

“Fuck you,” you snap, but you’re grinning when you jostle your hips and he swears and clenches.

“What’s it feel like?” you repeat, curious. He makes a bit of a face and leans an elbow on your knee. “Like you thought it would?” you prompt, and he squints and tilts his head to regard you, maybe seeing genuine curiosity. Your hand’s still on his dick so you squeeze a little, swipe a thumb over the head. He sighs through his nose and grinds back a little, and shit, that feels good.

“For real,” you insist. “What’s it like, havin’ a cock up your ass?”

He seems to consider, then bluntly decides, “Man, I ain’t gonna lie to ya, it feels like takin’ a shit in reverse.”

You can’t help cracking up a little, maybe because of the fucking bizarreness of the situation because _Dallas Winston is sitting on your cock—_ and he grins too, until apparently you jostle him a little too much and he cusses you out and has to brace his forearms on your chest, and you’re laughing again, giddy—

His head drops to your neck and you can feel him grinning against your shoulder. You still don’t know why he’s doing it, letting you see this part of him, but you know better than to question it. You run a hand down his back and let yourself enjoy the snatch of a stupidly light feeling that’s probably only courtesy of the weed, and maybe, just maybe, in a different world, you and Dal could’ve been something like friends.

It doesn’t take too long to jack him back to hardness. He blows out a breath when you do, and starts grinding for real, all purposeful, still real slow—testing the waters. You shudder and focus on the spring digging into your back.

“Y’know,” Dal grumbles. “This is a helluva lot harder than we give them broads credit for, Christ. How the _fuck_ did Sylvia do this shit until she came?”

“The lady’s got better thighs than you, cowboy. Woulda thought there’d be some muscle here by now, what with all them ponies you ride,” you taunt, smacking his thigh.

“S’like you can talk,” he scowls and clenches his ass, tight around your cock, and you can’t help the low groan that slips from your throat. He lets out a breathless laugh, a little surprised, and tries grinding in a circle and you swear profusely.

“Does it even feel any good for you?” you ask, and he shrugs.

“Still weird. Ain’t half bad though.” He leans forwards a little and shifts his knees a little wider, and you take his hips, planting your feet into the bed, and grind upwards, slow. He grunts and little and puts his hands on your chest, a little messy as the two of you try and work out a rhythm but it comes easier than expected. He rolls his hips, thighs tight around your waist, and you distantly wonder if you used enough lube—but only distantly, because it feels fucking _good_ —until Dal mutters another variation of the lord’s name in vain and gropes for the Vaseline.

“Shit.”

Then for the umpteenth time that night, you’re fucking laughing during fucking sex when he accidentally knocks the tub off the bed with all manner of expletives. He attempts manoeuvring around your knees but ends up sliding off with a hiss as he gropes the floor by the side of the bed, before you take pity on him and sit up to help. He leans down at the same time, struggling to get his arm under the bed, and you bump jaws, a tiny burst of pain. Glaring, he tries shoving you down to the mattress but you use his hair to haul yourself back up, and suddenly you’re kissing, messy, light, a dumb laugh tumbling from his mouth into yours.

When he rolls his hips into yours, hot and hard, you break away and insist, “The Vaseline—” but he only grins, this dizzying spark in his eye.

“You want my ass _so_ bad—”

“Your ass is the only thing you got going for you,” you say, yanking on white-blonde hair again, catching the way it gleams in the dim light and feeling it slip through your fingers, soft. He must have washed it earlier today.

He just elbows you and shrugs. “An’ I’ll bet yours is prob’ly the only decent part about you. Fuckin’ hood.”

You arch an eyebrow and tease, “You wanna find out?”

“The hell d’you mean, do I wanna fuckin’ know?” Dal scoffs. He dives in to nip at your jaw, nose nudging your cheek, then takes the lobe of your ear in his teeth, rolling the earring around his tongue. It makes you shudder and you haven’t got the energy to unpick why.

“Next time, huh, cowboy?” he snickers. “Make you feel so good you’re squirmin’ on my fingers and begging for cock, like a little fuckin’ whore?”

You reach around his waist and shove a couple fingers up his ass in retaliation, making him gasp and rock back into them and _fuck_ if that’s not the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

“C’mon, get the Vaseline,” you snap, reaching clumsy hands over the side of the bed. He nudges you, teasing, but you secure an arm around his waist and manage to get a grip on the small tub. When you’ve slicked up, you stick three fingers into his ass again, watch the way he takes them so easy now, grinding down on your lap with damp breath in your ear and a hand tangled tight in the curls at the back of your head. If you tilt your head a little you’re just about at the right level to try running your tongue over his nipple, like you’d do to a girl—he lets out a gasp and arches into your touch and that. That’s. It’s—you don’t really know how to handle it so you flip him over, pin him on his forearms, ass up. And he doesn’t even open that big fucking mouth of his.

“Dal?” He says nothing, but shivers. His back is an expanse of white skin in front of you, smooth, damp with sweat and gleaming, thrown into sharp planes from the shitty lamp and the yellow that bleeds under the door—mixing together, bleeding gold silver and flushed pink, dips of his ribs and shoulder blades prominent, lean muscle lax around his shoulders. Lord. You grind against his bare ass, real slow, and watch him gasp against the pillow.

“Can I?” The voice that comes out isn’t yours. It’s young and nervous and desperate and hopeful and you let your fingers settle over his hips and tap out a rapid tempo because you know they’ll tremble anyway.

“Yeah.” Short, cut off. Breathless. You let out a whoosh of air.

You start the slow press back in after you line yourself up, and he clenches the pillow, white-knuckled, but takes it all the way—and in the end, you’re the one who has to pause once you’re fully seated because it feels too damn good around your cock. You drape yourself over his back and wrap arms around his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his ribs, his heart beating against your fingertips. You press a kiss between his shoulder blades before you can think about what you’re doing and the sheets rustle when he sighs and shifts on the pillow.

“There a reason you ain’t doing jack shit, Timothy?” he gets out, voice catching a little on the end. “What, you really tellin’ me you don’t know how to fuck? Little fucking queer—”

You huff a breathless laugh into his back and roll your hips obligingly, savouring the drag, the way he seems to cling to you despite the lube, watch the way he buries his face into the pillow. But it’s easier now, the slide, so you pick up the pace and mouth at his neck, sloppy. You ain’t no virgin—whatever Dal says, you know how to fuck and know that you do, so when he grunts and fists his fingers into the sheets you don’t let up, getting that angle every time until he’s forced to turn his head on the pillow, eyelids trembling, to gulp in air.

Eventually, you get a hand on his dick—it’s with a note of satisfaction that you notice he’s too out of it to do it himself. And he’s fucking hard, leaking all over your knuckles, just from a cock up the ass. But _fuck,_ you ain’t gonna last long—

“Dal,” you rasp, and he bites down on his lip to hide his whine—you hear it anyway, faint. It’s like you’re falling, so damned near to the edge but you’re scared to go crashing over. “I’m close.”

Your voice is ragged enough to be embarrassing but you don’t give a hang, not when the coldest hood around the block lets out a tiny moan beneath you, and fuck it, you’ll come in him, if he didn’t want it he woulda tossed you off already. He seems to writhe as you focus on driving down, over and over, and _Lord,_ does it really feel that good having something up the ass? But you don’t think about it when heat starts to pool around your groin, intense, and _fuck._ Sudden, irrational blankness, your futile, unwarranted resistance—your balls are tight and movements sloppy and breathing harsh when you collapse over his back again. And then you’re coming, tipped over, breath punched out and it’s intense, so intense. Blinding, almost.

Hell, you’re actually shaking when you force yourself to peel away from Dal’s back.

He groans, frustrated, and you’re still light-headed. But you fumble to shove his at hips anyway and he rolls over, easy, still pliant, and you wind up with your head between his legs yet again, and he fists his hands in the pillow when you put three fingers back in. It’s so slick, hot and tight as it clenches around your fingers—you’re mesmerised. It’s probably the post-orgasm high, but you can’t take your eyes away from where they’re disappearing into him, filthy. Your come on his thighs. The way he’s sprawled artlessly, splayed out for you, and from this angle you can see his heaving chest, the flush crawling all the way up his torso, his neck, the blotches on his cheeks.

It’s swollen, that spot in his ass, and it’s easy to touch, again and again and again until his thighs are fucking trembling and you don’t know how long it’s been but you realise that you should probably do something about the aching problem between Dal’s legs, before he makes you, and when your lips close around the tip of his cock again he chokes out, _“Tim,”_ and sounds so fucking wrecked.

You moan because you know he’ll feel the vibrations—you’re still loose-limbed and your eyes feel glazed and your jaw fucking aches and you just want him to hurry up and _finish,_ goddamn—

He lets out this short, sharp sound, this “ _Ah,”_ all high and cut-off and so fucking perfect, and gives a full-body shudder. Then, “ _Oh, oh—"_ and you could just about die when his ass clamps around your fingers, fluttering. Imagining that around your cock. You groan deep when the first strands of salty liquid hit the back of your throat, making you pull off, gagging, so you stroke with your other hand instead, letting it hit your chin, your chest. You’d keep him looking like that forever if you could, flushed and sweaty, back arched all the way off the bed and splayed so open in every way. His eyes are screwed shut and his brow scrunched, mouth gaping and lips swollen, and it seems to last forever until he sags back down, still twitching a little, and you pull away, still stunned.

Forever, until he whispers _fuck_ , rough, and breaks the spell between the two of you. Sound comes trickling back, steady—harsh breathing, muted laughter and music from downstairs. Someone starting up a car outside. And you suddenly feel kind of cold when you slide off the bed and wipe at the mess on your chest with his shirt.

After a moment’s hesitation, you decide against cleaning up the spunk still drying between Dal’s thighs. He doesn’t move from his position, a forearm thrown over his eyes, when you sit tentatively on the side of the bed and fish through the pile of clothes on the floor for your cigarettes. You stick one between your lips but you’re suddenly hyperaware of everything that the two of you have just done, and you cut your search for matches short—because fuck, that just happened.

“Timothy,” he mumbles, seemingly still out of it. You stay quiet, taking the unlit cigarette from your mouth and rolling it between your fingers. You feel disconnected.

“Jesus, Timothy,” he mumbles again, and you feel the thud in the mattress when he lets his arm fall to his side. “Feels fuckin’ good, I’m tellin’ ya. I’m stickin’ a finger up yours next time.”

“Whatever,” you say, a little dizzy. The pot has long since worn out of your system and you just want a fucking smoke. You’re left kind of cold, kind of empty, and hell, maybe this is just how you feel all the time without a distraction.

 _Next time,_ he’d said. It’s a fragile thought, a fragile bubble struggling to form in your mind, a hollow mimicry of the earlier headiness that sinks when you balk at it. He doesn’t move, still, and you listen to his breathing even out slowly, still unmoving. And your stomach clenches when you picture that look on his face again, how fucking open he was, transparent, like you could have reached into his being and touched the edge of his soul, and he would have let you.

You try crush the cigarette in your palm, but it’s too small and your nails leave little crescent moons in your skin. Don’t think about the way you stupidly felt for a moment. It’s the sex numbing your brain and it’s dangerous, your game. A calm’s settled over him now but you’re suddenly on a live wire and you want your fucking matches but you can’t shake the feeling that if you move, you’ll disrupt the fragile peace between you.

You shove the slightly mutilated cigarette between your teeth once more, give up and toss it to the floor. He’s always been loose-limbed after sex, easier then you’ve ever seen him, whether he’s messing around with you, or whether he’s stumbling out of a bathroom with a broad on his arm and a lope to his gait. It ain’t nothing, you’re just. Overthinking. If only he kept more weed in his fucking room.

A _next time,_ maybe, and a next time after that. Wondering if you’ll ever get it. You’ll probably fuck again, that’s a given. If Dal likes something he’ll damn well take it, but you feel stupidly lost when you try picturing the two of you fucking like you fight, of bending him over and taking. Of the single-minded intensity that followed your first kiss. The first time you pushed him to his knees and he let you. The three second easiness that followed the morning he stayed the night, easy eyes, crinkled and soft and god-awful bed hair.

The give-and-take that’s always been there, the stolen moments you’ve never bothered acknowledge before: cold, shaky fingers when you haul him to his feet after a fight; his hand solid on the small of your back when you’re too wasted to walk; your eyes meeting over someone’s head and a curl in his lips. It’s a reflex for you, and somehow, he’s always already looking.

The distant ache, the wonder whether it will always be like this. You know nothing’s permanent, not feelings, not people, not you. Accept that they’ll leave, and that indulging yourself while they’re here is risky. You get addicted, that way, and ain’t nobody immune. Things slipping and you’ve learned not to give a hang—but you’re thinking about it now, about Curly, and Angela, what the hell they’re doing without a mama. Your gang, tight-knit. Dal and his fleeting smile, nails digging into your palm and gone with the wind. You’re spiralling.

You’re volatile, the two of you, each moment a sitting landmine. What does he think about in the cover of night? You risk a glance now, and he’s still lying back, so serene, eyes shut and his chest rising, falling, slow. Dallas Winston in New York, ratty boy with eyes too shifty and scabby knees. Dally in Tulsa, blazing blue ice and a switchblade catching the light. Dal, in New Orleans, and in your mind, he smiles wild, biting into a cigarette with a smudge of Mardi Gras glitter on his shoulder and a lit firework in his fingers swinging round, around.

In your mind, you pull it from his fingers and shoot it at the sky instead, watch it explode, rip a hole in the sky and bloom, long, red fingers arching and dissolving until the last sparks look like stars. What if you turned to look at him first? Caught him staring, off his guard? If you touched his shoulder, gentle, where you’d slapped him with a palmful of glitter off the street, when it was painfully early and just as empty, save for used ribbons muted against the grey sidewalk and the distant rattle of the streetcar.

A shaky exhale and you turn and run fingers through his hair without thinking. It’s kinda cold from sweat, a little damp, still soft. When he turns his head to look, his eyes are wide and there’s a small crease forming between his eyebrows. He says nothing and your voice catches in your throat, and you drop the lock of hair, only just about remembering to be casual about it. You can’t stay.

In the next second you’re standing up, turning your back to him and pulling on your clothes robotically. When you cast one last glance over your shoulder he’s hunched on the side of the bed, his back to you. He looks alone as he always does, sheets twisted over his lap and smoke rising steady from the cigarette between his lips. You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing when you leave and the click of the door shutting seems to echo.

He knows you’re not gone, not really.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know when I decided Tim Shepard was a touch starved disaster gay in denial that he’s got a substance problem but we're here now. Obligatory: for the love of god don’t use Vaseline for any kind of sex; that shit stays and it weakens latex and you’re twice as likely to end up with a yeast infection or an STD 
> 
> AO3 is right, and brevity is the wit of the fucking soul, and I’ve failed miserably. I’m sorry. I’ll try not to churn out 7000+ words without a scene break next time but no guarantees 
> 
> This is technically a series, kind of like a collection of their moments I guess? There’s a part before this (before I be your dog baby, please don’t go) but just a heads-up I think it’s shit, and a part afterwards (mind done gone; shackles on) which is slightly less shit, and I have a bunch of other random Dal/Tim fics because I’m weak for them for no good reason so if you wanna, that’s there. Thanks for reading, comments and kudos always appreciated and tumblr @jvo-taiski if you fancy a chat
> 
> Jx


End file.
